When We Dance
by Danigirl32
Summary: AU Liason Fic: The ballerina and the enforcer..can an unlikely pair find love?


A/N: Hey! Here is a little short story I was working on today and decided to post. It is AU and has nothing to do with what's on GH at the moment. Again, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed my previous stories, they are very appreciated and I don't think I can say that enough.

With the guidelines here, I am unable to post the song for this fic, _Whenever You Call by Mariah Carey. _However, if you're curious the story in it's entirety is posted on my board.

Enough from me : )

Summary: AU Liason fic. The ballerina and the enforcer...can an unlikely pair fall in love?

Rated: T  
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just twist their lives to my own whims

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**_When We Dance_**

He would never forget the first moment he saw her.

The docks were almost completely dark because someone, probably out to do a little business and not wanting to be spied upon, had broken several of the street lights. All except for that one that gave the night it's curious glow over that spot.

It was cold, probably the coldest October night he'd ever experienced in Port Charles, but it didn't really feel that way because he'd always had a problem experiencing cold the way other people did. Normally he just slipped into his leather jacket and that was enough to ward off the usual chill but considering the looks he tended to get, he'd tried to blend as much as possible. If he noted that men wore a scarf and gloves, he would slip those on before he left his small apartment.

Since the accident five years ago, he'd had enough of people staring at him.

The Quartermaines continued looking to him for something he couldn't give. They wanted their golden boy back. Instead they were stuck with him. The shadowy substitute. The one who was quick to anger. The one who defied authority. The one who couldn't remember that he was supposed to love them.

So he had moved out, in the beginning taking a job working on the waterfront working for Sonny Corinthos in his coffee warehouse and getting an apartment in one of the brownstones that nice nurse at GH had rented out to him. Bobbie Spencer, yeah, the red-head who always had a smile for him. He knew that she only offered the apartment because she was friends with Monica Quartermaine, but at least she wasn't trying to push him to remember her. She had accepted those memories before the car accident were gone forever unlike the Quartermaines seemed incapable of doing.

He had a decent life, work, a warm place to live, it was all he needed. All he could handle without the loss and the isolation seeping into his bones reminding him that he wasn't normal. He wasn't like everyone else.

Then he met Robin and Carly and they had proceeded to tear his life apart on levels that didn't even bear thinking about. Robin who had taught him about love and betrayal. Carly who had taught him about lust and lies. He had come to the decision that it was better to avoid relationships with women all together. Keep things simple. Sex when he needed it and keep his emotions, or the supposed lack of, to himself.

So it had been a surprise to find her sitting on the docks that night alone.

What had made the strongest impression? The fact that she looked like some kind of spirit balanced there, or the fact that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Long rich brown hair fell over her face at first. Hair that his hands wanted to touch. Itched to touch. He just needed to know if it would feel as soft and silky as it appeared to be. Long slender denim clad legs were pulled to her chest with her arms wrapped around them and that's when he noticed her back shaking.

"Are you okay?" The words had slipped out before he could stop them, move on and ignore the fact that he wasn't like everyone else, that he should just let her cry and go on about his business and give her the privacy that she had obviously been seeking.

Only he hadn't been able to. He didn't understand why he knew she was crying, despite the way her back seemed to tremble beneath the force of her weeping. Maybe it was the way her fingers clenched at each other. Or maybe it was the air of sorrow that seemed to surround her. Whatever it was, he found himself unable to walk away though it might be for the best.

Then she lifted her head and took his breath away.

Eyes, a perfect blue rimmed with tears that spilled over onto pale cheeks. Lips, full, a dusky rose that she licked nervously as she looked at him in surprise. She said nothing, blinked several times then glanced around as if she were unaware of her surroundings. When her eyes touched on him again, it nailed straight into his stomach. Made his heart hitch once in his chest before it started hammering in a loud awkward pattern that he wondered if she could hear.

"I'm fine," she answered, in a soft, wispy voice. She swallowed then repeated herself, "I'm fine, really," in a stronger voice that now included a frown as she hastily wiped her face dry. "Thank you for asking." She acknowledged then began moving, grabbing the purse from the bench beside her and pushing to her feet to leave.

"I didn't mean to run you off." The words burst free in a rush. He didn't want her to leave, but he didn't want her to be afraid either. He just knew that if she left now that this moment would prove unreal. The waif in the night would be just an illusion his scrambled brain had cooked up to take the edge off another lonely night.

She paused and glanced back at him over her shoulder, "You didn't," she lied, because he could hear that hesitance in her voice. "It's late and I should be going."

"Okay," he shrugged, not knowing how to tell her to stay. Just one more side affect of his accident. These little social niceties that people had, the ones that Robin tried to teach him. For once he felt the weight of his inadequacies. That other man would know how to talk to her, to reassure her that he wasn't some sociopath walking the docks to assault unsuspecting women. That other man would know the right questions to discover why she was sitting here crying alone.

Only he wasn't that man any longer. He didn't have those words, that sense of self. All he had was this awe of her delicate, almost ethereal beauty, and the need to be around her.

She didn't say anything, and she didn't leave. Though she did tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear and watch him. He should have felt self conscious because he hated when people stared at him, but he was so glad that she hadn't run off that he could deal with her questioning gaze. Besides it wasn't that probing look those other people gave him. Curious, yes. But not wanting something he hadn't the ability to give.

He searched his head for something to say, some socially acceptable response that would keep her standing there, then he remembered something he always heard people asking. "Are you cold? I can go get you some coffee or something."

That wasn't too forward right? One of those perfectly arched eyebrows lifted, then she scrunched her nose a bit, really cute in a way that somehow made her elegant beauty just a bit more touchable. "I hate coffee." She answered, then closed the short denim jacket around her tighter. "But it is cold, I could use some hot chocolate."

He frowned for a second, he'd heard of hot tea, that was something his Grandmother liked to drink each afternoon a little after one when she came in from her garden. One of very few members of his family he could tolerate being around, Grandmother didn't need him to be that other man. She just needed him to be himself. Whoever that man turned out to be.

"What's hot chocolate?" He asked before he thought better of it. Normally when he asked questions, people would get this look on their face, as if he were an idiot. Then again, by normal standards, most people generally considered him an idiot when they heard the details of his accident. He was better than those first years when he had struggled along, relearning the basic parts of life, but every so often someone would hit him with information and he would be reminded. Reminded again of that man who was gone.

"You've never heard of hot chocolate?" She asked him, but it didn't appear to be ridicule, she just sounded surprised.

"No," he lifted a shoulder, and resisted the urge to shove his hands into his pockets. People didn't like that either, the fact that his nerves were more erratic. Sometimes he could be completely still, almost fading away, especially around people he didn't like. Or while he was working. It was a handy skill but sometimes, like now, those giveaways were unavoidable. He could usually disguise it by shoving his hands into his pockets, or folding his arms, but eventually something gave him away.

"Umm," she pursed her lips gently, then smiled a bit, "It's kind of like coffee, except it's made from chocolate and milk." Then she smiled a little brighter, "Or at least the best kind is. Usually it's the instant stuff from a packet that you add hot water to then I have to have at least three packs of those." Then she turned to face him a bit more, "You look familiar, have we met before?"

Now here is where it started. "I'm Elizabeth Webber."

"Jason." He answered simply, refusing to give that other last name, because he wasn't that man any longer. Jason Quartermaine was dead. "Jason Morgan." In the beginning, the warehouse foreman insisted that he couldn't be put on payroll without a last name so he had taken the middle name that was on the identification the family insisted he carry and turned it into something of his own. A first step toward personal independence.

"Well, hello Jason Morgan," she smiled again, and he felt a glimmer of warmth swim in his chest. Then her eyes widened briefly and he figured she realized exactly who he was now. "I'm such an idiot, Emily's brother," she pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, "Now I remember. We met five years ago before I moved to New York City. at Em's birthday party."

"I don't remember that," he said sharply and watched those gentle eyes flicker with wariness.

Maybe it was better this way, one less person to disappoint. One less set of expectations to live up to. So why did that frustrate him more than usual?

"Oh," she looked down at her feet, "Well, I was late for the party, and if I'm not mistaken, you did leave early with some of your friends."

"No," he interrupted, "I don't remember any of that. Even if we did meet at Emily's party and we had a long conversation, I wouldn't remember. If we had snuck off and had sex in a closet I wouldn't remember."

Now why had he just said that?

"Well," she snorted lightly, "That's kind of insulting." She turned to leave, then whipped back around, "I certainly don't remember you being this much of an ass." Then she walked toward the stairs and he closed his eyes, sitting on the bench that she had just vacated and ran his fingers through over his head.

Better this way, he reminded himself again. He leaned back and stretched out his legs more comfortably, ignoring the voice in his head that told him to go after her. Nothing good could come from it. Keeping his distance from people who knew that man from before was the only thing he could do to protect himself. Last thing he needed was another woman wanting more from him than he could give.

Robin wanted him to be upright and moral. Wanted him to stop lying about AJ being Michael's father, stop working for Sonny and fit himself into this neat little cube she had in her mind for him. Carly wanted everything, but had no idea what to do once she had it. Then depended on him to pick up the pieces of whatever mess she made.

"You could apologize."

He hadn't expected to hear her voice again, so it was a shock to see her standing beside the bench again. That was strange because it was rare for anyone to sneak up on him unsuspecting. For some reason since the accident, his hearing was keener, his instincts sharper, as if taking up for the lack in the rest of him. "Why?"

"Because when you hurt someone's feelings you're supposed to apologize," she answered dryly.

"Why did I hurt your feelings?"

Then she frowned and shook her head, "Were you always this dense, or is this just for my benefit?"

Instead of replying he just turned to glance out onto the water. It had the opposite effect of not driving her away but she huffed and sat down on the bench next to him, reassuming her position of legs drawn against her and resting her chin on her knees. "Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

He shrugged, wondering why she wanted to ask him anything. They didn't know each other, were complete strangers, what could he offer her? He didn't have any answers, it was all he could do to get by.

"Never mind," she closed her eyes and turned away, "It doesn't make any difference."

He thought she would leave then, but she just sat there. Though neither of them said anything, the silence was nice. No expectations. No disappointments. Just silence. After a while, though, he remembered what she had said. Maybe he couldn't understand how he had hurt her feelings, but she had made him curious. "What does hot chocolate taste like?"

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She would never forget the first day they met.

It was after all the day her life had completely fallen apart.

All she had wanted to do from the moment she understood what en Pointe meant was dance. The first time she had seen her destiny was one Christmas when she had been shipped off to her Grams house here in Port Charles while her parents were off trying to heal the world.

Steven and Sarah opted to spend the holidays with friends back in Denver, but she was only eight and friendless anyway so she was delegated her Grandparents responsibility for the holidays. After the Christmas party at General Hospital, Grams had driven into New York City so they could see The Nutcracker performed by the New York City Ballet.

The moment the stage lights went down and the orchestra began playing eight year old Lizzie Webber had known that something special was going to happen. Then the ballerina danced on stage, lithe perfection, each movement a beautiful accent to the music and it had all been like a dream. A dream that she hadn't wanted to awaken from.

Pleased that their difficult and wayward child had found something to occupy her time other than getting into trouble and seeking attention, her parents had happily enrolled her into dance classes after the first of the year.

If she wanted them to share her enjoyment, or at the very least come to one of her recitals, she never voiced a complaint in fear that they would do as they always had and snatch this one joy from her. On stage she could shine. She rose above their reprisals and disapproval. Through the years she became the best dancers in her little school, eventually moving on to the performing arts academy for high school. Her parents couldn't understand how two people so focused on medicine had produced a child their polar opposite, but if it kept Lizzie out of their hair and out of trouble they resigned themselves.

The summer she graduated high school, she was invited to audition at the New York City Ballet Company and she leapt at the opportunity. Her parents tried to convince her to go to college, to choose a career that was stable and secure. What kind of life did a dancer have anyway unless she was a prima ballerina. All Elizabeth would do was resign her self to scrabbling for chorus jobs and waiting tables to make the bills.

Instead of arguing, she packed up her things, and left Denver to spend the summer at her Grams to work and save money before her move to New York.

Now here she was five years later and at the end of a career that had barely even started.

For three years her career had burst like fireworks. Bright, fiery and amazing to behold. All the hope and determination her parents had instilled into their other children, had unknowingly rubbed off on the youngest. The cold nights of aching muscles, raw feet, hunger and desperation had made her the youngest prima ballerina in company history. At nineteen she danced her first solo. At twenty one she was the ballerina the younger students aspired to be.

And at twenty three she was ruined by one dislocated knee, a broken ankle and a snapped tendon.

All because her drunken boyfriend Lucky refused to take no for his sloppy marriage proposal and accidentally pushed her down a flight of stairs. When she awakened in the hospital, all the doctors and nurses had been so kind to her, but she had seen their pity.

Poor Lizzie Webber. Always doomed to failure no matter how hard she tries.

The only thing she could do was escape. Run from the reporters and the phone calls back to the one place that had felt just a little bit like a home. That was Port Charles and her Grams. If only her nightmares could be so easily dealt with.

Then she met Jason and realized just how deep her pool of self pity she had begun to drown in, truly was.

Chilled despite the warm rainy April morning, she placed the key into the lock, swinging the door wide, loving the smell of lemon and wax that greeted her. The room had a slight coolness as usual, nothing a little nudge on the thermostat couldn't handle. She dropped her jacket onto the hook by the door and walked toward her office, the heels on her boots rapping sharply on the floors.

**_XX_**

"Did the doctors say that you could never dance again?" Jason had asked her one evening after their usual dinners at Kelly's. After an interesting first meeting, Jason had unexpectedly become one of her best friends.

Imagine her surprise to discover that the brother of one of the few friends she had made that summer before moving to New York had been in a car accident that had drastically changed his life. Everyone was happy to give her the details. Brain damaged. Unable to feel. Unable to remember his family and friends. Unable to remember the basic things in life that most people took for granted.

Like how hot chocolate tasted.

"No," she answered truthfully. After months of extensive physical therapy, all the doctors she visited all had the same response. There was no reason why she shouldn't be able to return to dance. Only they hadn't factored in the company directors unwillingness to take a chance on a ballerina whose ability had been compromised. It was a stance she could understand.

They wanted the best. And she was no longer the best.

They were more than willing to welcome her back to the company, but whenever the question of a solo rose, no one was unable to conceal that doubt in their eyes. Could she handle the pressure? Could she withstand the rigors of practice that came along with crucial roles?

And then there were the flaws she saw within her self. Her jetes weren't as sharp as before. Weren't her pirouettes cleaner than this? Didn't her arabesques flow easier?

So she left New York and her dream behind more lost than she had ever been in her life. And ended up on the docks one fall night, not ready to face the questions of her Grams. Or the pity. Instead she found Jason.

"Then why did you quit?" Those intense Celtic blue eyes wanted to know.

Her instinctual response to that question that too many people had asked her was anger. They didn't understand. Yet, she knew that Jason wasn't asking the question in the same way. There were no expectations behind it, no ridicule, no belief that she had crumbled under the pressure. He just wanted to understand.

She had glanced around the quiet docks, and taken a deep breath and admitted for the first time since she had boarded the plane from New York to Port Charles, "I'm afraid."

She played with the cup of hot chocolate and took a deep shaky breath, knowing that she needed to explain herself. She didn't mind, because with Jason she wasn't defending herself, which is what most often her words became. "All my life, all I've ever wanted to do was dance. From the moment I understood what a Prima Ballerina was, that was my goal. My dream. And for almost two years I lived that dream and it was the most amazing thing I've ever known. Now it's gone, I'll never get that back, because the directors will never trust my leg that way again."

She stood then, and walked to the edge of the docks to look down at the water, it's murky depths a mirror to the darkness she felt building in her heart. "All because of some stupid argument with my ex-boyfriend and everything I've struggled to achieve is gone." Furious she tossed the cup across the water, watching it bounce across the surface once then stop only to gradually sink beneath the surface.

The story of her life.

"I'm sorry."

A gentle hand closed on her shoulder and she had to struggle to hold back the tears that wanted to burst free. So many times the easy comfort he offered threatened to break through the wall she had shored up for her emotions. Only she knew that if she cried now, she would fall apart and if it was one thing her parents had taught her through their negligence and virtual abandonment was that tears never solved anything.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," she shrugged, then laid her head against his shoulder. How dare she feel sorry for herself, after everything she had learned about him? Jason had to practically learn how to live all over again. Simple things that she took for granted, he had to experience once again. And he did so most of the time alone because he hated exposing any vulnerability.

The only family Jason allowed himself to care for were his Grandmother and Emily, though he and his mother were beginning to make steps toward each other. Then that chaos with Robin and Carly, where he had lost the little boy he had considered his son and he had once again shut himself off. She knew he still hurt but he endured the pain without complaint. How could she wallow in self-pity when what he had lost was so much more important?

It didn't help that he was working for Sonny Corinthos, the local mob boss. Jason didn't like to talk about his job with her but she knew it was dangerous. She understood those times she came upon him and Sonny speaking, that he was being drawn deeper into the organization. Knew that gun he carried meant that he wasn't stacking crates in the coffee warehouse.

Knew that he had probably used that gun.

The first time he was arrested while she was here and she went to bail him out, the press made more of her involvement than his actual arrest. The enforcer and l_a prima ballerina_. Her parents had actually deigned to call and complain about her involving herself and the family name with that of a common criminal. Grams had threatened to disown her. Her friends called her crazy for putting herself in danger.

Even Jason had tried to protect her by pushing her away for her own good. She politely informed him that if she hadn't begged for her parents' approval she certainly wasn't going to beg for the friendship of a man who had promised he could be trusted not to hurt her. That had lasted all of three weeks of her blatantly ignoring him and making him feel like shit whenever their paths crossed. Then he had shown up at her loft with a copy of _A Chorus Line_, her favorite deep dish supreme pizza, a bottle of cheap Chianti and an apology for trying to take away her choices.

She forgave him. _After_ making him watch the musical twice.

Jason had finally understood what she had tried to tell him. His profession didn't change the friendship she cherished. The man who frowned in disgust at hot chocolate because he preferred coffee but drank it anyway because it was her favorite. The man who listened to what she had to say but didn't try to make her do anything she didn't want. The man who took her for motorcycle rides when she was furious with her friends and family and needed to escape before she screamed. The man who asked simple questions when he didn't understand something but refused to be treated like a child. This man meant more to her than the opinions people who barely understood her ever could.

He had become her best friend and nothing anyone said about him would change that.

Gradually she grew to know Jason Morgan. Tender, strong, loyal and dangerous Jason Morgan. A man so breathtakingly handsome he made her ache. His mouth made her think naughty thoughts. Especially that full lower lip that she imagined sucking softly on, or nipping lightly with her teeth. He had hands that would make any woman want to feel moving across her skin and a body that screamed to be ridden hard.

Yet those eyes were perhaps his most extraordinary feature. For outsiders they could be cold, detached. Yet for her, they always seemed to shimmer with emotion. Laughter, tenderness, pleasure, sarcasm, anger, frustration. Whatever he felt in the moments they were together, he never hid behind the wall he used to protect himself against the rest of the world. For that, she was truly grateful, because she knew how great a risk it was for him to trust after his previous disastrous relationships.

And she hoped that he was getting to know her as well. He certainly asked more questions than anyone she knew. Not the easy stuff either. The questions that most people deep down asked themselves late at night when there was no one else around to hear. The questions that made her uncomfortable sometimes because he would accept nothing less than honesty and call her on a lie.

He knew of her longing for acceptance from her parents, her frustration in knowing it was something she would never have. He knew of her love of dance. He even knew that she liked to sleep in ratty old pajamas and a pair of thick black wool men's socks because her feet were always cold. That one he learned the hard way when she fell asleep on his couch at the brownstone one night while they were watching Scarface.

Together they discovered his love of Italian food, and her complete ineptitude in cooking it. This usually resulted in him doing most of the cooking and her supervising or her ordering from Kelly's and him rushing out to pick it up.

"But it doesn't mean that you have to give up dancing completely right?" He asked bringing her back to that moment. The chill of the winter air on her face, the scent of leather from his coat, and the feel of his arms around her. It was all more comforting than she had expected, and it made her weak heart ache for more. "You could still dance."

"It isn't the same," she insisted, turning away, not wanting to hear yet another argument about how she was giving up.

"No it isn't," he responded quietly, "It's never going to be the same. Yet sometimes different isn't so bad."

She turned around, smiling as she realized what he meant. She placed a hand to his cheek to tell him that in her opinion, different was just perfect as far as she was concerned. Jason Quartermaine had lived as a shadow over his life until the day he finally decided that he needed to step out of that shadow and live for himself. "No it isn't," she answered, because she honestly didn't know if she would have been able to consider Jason Quartermaine the friend that Jason Morgan had become.

"So is that the only reason why you danced? To be a Prima ballerina?"

"Of course not," she immediately answered. "I dance because it's the one place where I feel free." She tilted her head, and tried to get him to understand the sensation that embraced her the second the music began. "You know how you feel when you're on your bike? How everything seems to fall away? The things people say, the expectations. That sense of flying. The rush."

He nodded, and she could see in his eyes that he understood, "That's what dancing is for me. It's just me, the music and the dance and nothing else matters. The way each movement challenges me, the emotion it drags free, it's so much more than just being the best."

"Then why are you letting some directors stop you from feeling that way?"

It was a question she hadn't been able to answer.

**_XX_**

Now here she was months later with an answer and it had come in a form she hadn't expected. The phone rang at her new desk and she rushed to answer, a smile in her voice, "When We Dance, this is Elizabeth Webber, the director, speaking."

**_XX_**

Jason tapped on the door before pushing it open, glancing around the empty studio and allowed the small smile to touch his mouth as he remembered Elizabeth's initial excitement about this place.

She had dragged him down here to see her new acquisition without giving him any of the details and he could all but feel the exhilaration pouring off of her. It had taken every ounce of strength he had not to pull her into his arms. Only he knew that she had placed him in the column of friend. Best friend. So everyday he struggled with the need to be near her and everyday he managed not to make a fool of himself.

Elizabeth had tossed open the door with a bright eager, "Tada!" and he had glanced around the gloomy abandoned building with a leer of apprehension.

She had taken one glimpse at him and burst into laughter. "Oh, if you could see your face." She nudged his stomach with her elbow, her wide smile contagious, "Struggling to come up with something to say, when I can almost hear you questioning my sanity."

"You said it not me," he drawled, and this time she punched him in the shoulder.

"I know it looks like crap right now," she offered, then began walking around, those long legs drawing his eye to the willowy body that had become his temptation. "You just have to look closer for the potential."

"Potential demolition?"

"Idiot," she smirked, then pointed to a door, "Back there will be the dressing rooms, both sexes." She walked to another door and pushed it open, "I'll make this one my office, and the one next to it, will be a library for my tapes, music, costumes, books, stuff like that."

Then she returned to the center of the room, "I'll rip out these floors and put down a basic dance floor. A mirror on that wall over there, ballet bars. There's another room on the other side of where I plan to put the dressing rooms, exactly the same size as this one, for a second studio. The ceilings are perfect for acoustics, and there's plenty of room for a piano if I want live music. I'll paint the walls a soft blue maybe. A rose in the other."

Gradually he began to see what she was describing, he had certainly watched that damned movie enough to get the idea. "You want to turn this dump into a dance studio?"

"It's not a dump," a flash of humor crossed her face, "Well not much of one anyway," she reluctantly conceded at his grimace. "But look outside, Jason. I'm in a prime location. The schools are only a short distance away. PCU doesn't offer any dance classes but are certainly looking for instructors."

"Is that why you turned down that teaching position?" He had been surprised to learn she had declined the job offer at the college, because she had actually seemed interested.

"I don't like taking orders," she smiled wryly, "Being a prima ballerina came with certain benefits. I could be a diva and it was tolerated. Expected even. Taking orders from some stuffy Dean who wouldn't know a _Rond de Jambe _if it bit him in the _Demi-Plie_ is not my idea of a good career move."

"So you want to open your own studio," he repeated, enjoying her excitement. "Do you have the money to fix this place? Because I can help you," he trailed off as she waved away his offer.

"I have money," she told him, and he believed her. She had lived comfortably in her loft for the past six months not caring about money and he had a feeling she could continue to do so. However he could see her need to dance. That had nothing to do with money. This studio was about her reclaiming her dream.

"But if you really want to help, you could help with construction and help keep the costs down. Some things I won't be able to avoid, like stripping out these floors, and renovating the dressing rooms because it will need plumbing for the bathrooms, but the simple stuff, like painting and moving stuff around, I could use a hand with that."

"You want cheap labor?" He didn't bother to hide his smile at her happy nod. "What about New York?"

"I'm not giving up on New York, but I can't just sit here in Port Charles bopping away in my little loft and waiting for someone to call me."

"If you were there, you would have a better chance," he started but she placed a finger over his lips.

"This is where I want to be," she assured him, "My contacts in New York know where I am, they know that I'm still dancing. I don't plan for this to be just some studio for little girls in their cute pink leotards and tutus. My place will be for real dancers. I've already contacted the University and they are excited about working with me. This isn't' just a studio, but my own company. My reputation is big enough to pull in dancers. Port Charles is close enough to New York to still be apart of the game."

"Sounds like you've thought this through."

"I have," she nodded, "I may have lost my diva status but I haven't lost my dream."

Hearing those words, he had been happy to pitch in the help, in between his hours working for Sonny. Painting, scrubbing and moving furniture was easy compared to being an enforcer. Now that the place was finished, he glanced around and was proud to have contributed to this place. The studio was warm, and over the hint of paint and lemon and stain, he could smell perspiration and Elizabeth. A soft feminine fragrance of woman and that sweet pea scent lotion she liked to rub into her skin.

She had been coming down for the past two weeks alone. Giving the floor a workout, she claimed, and refusing to allow him to watch. Then out of the blue she called him this morning and asked him to come down tonight after he was done with work. There was excitement in her voice that she hadn't been able to hide, and he could only wonder at it's source since she refused to give him any information over the phone.

She came out of the dressing room dressed in a loose pair of black jogging pants and a matching sweatshirt and a bright smile of greeting. He could tell she had been dancing because her face glowed and damp strands of hair clung to her forehead.

"You'll never guess who called me today," she planted her hands on her hips.

"You're probably right," he agreed making her laugh. She had always said his literalness was probably his most endearing quality. Most people said it got on their nerves, but if it made her happy, then he was fine with it.

"An old friend, Philippe Beauvais, who is a choreographer with the American Ballet Theatre. We started at New York City Ballet together before he found a better niche at ABT. There is a benefit concert for one of the board of director's retirement. Philippe is choreographing several numbers and thought of me."

"He wants you to come back to New York?"

"Yes," she almost shrieked with excitement, gesturing wildly with her hands, "Not only that, but he's sending students my way and he's agreed to come down to teach a few guest classes as well."

"But you're going back to dance? Back to New York?"

"Just for this show," she explained, "But he said that he'll always keep me in mind when he's working on new stuff, which means I'll be doing more guest spots with the company. He Fed Ex'd the piece he wants me to do. That's what I've been working on all day." She inclined her head, "Would you mind taking a look at it for me?"

He shrugged, "Sure," then he sat down in the large backed chair next to the audio system he'd put in.

She surprised the hell out of him when she began stripping off her clothes. It must have shown on her face because she laughed at him and asked, "What you thought I was going to dance in this," she tugged at the hem of the oversized sweatshirt, before stripping it over her head. He couldn't have glanced away even if he had wanted to as she revealed a dark blue fitted tank that displayed every graceful line of her body.

The deep v cupped her firm up tilted breasts, skin like peach tinted cream and the light toned body he had expected of a dancer, especially her shoulders, her shoulders made his mouth dry. Then she made his head swim as she bent over and pulled off the pants revealing a matching blue pair of boy shorts.

She acted as if it were nothing to be standing here in front of him with little more than two swatches of material concealing her body from him. Then he realized this was something she did every time she danced. There was no self consciousness in her movements. She was probably used to stripping down, for practice, quick costume changes, whatever. He was the pervert here, ogling her. Her body.

Could he help but stare at the way those shorts rode up on her ass just right? The blood pooled heavily in his lap, as he tried not to squirm in his chair but he had to scrub his fingers over his eyes. Maybe that would take some of the edge off the desire that was reeling through his body. When he glanced up she had made matters worse by folding down the waist band of her shorts to reveal a thick patch of skin at her waist, making him lick his lips as his gaze roved and lazily appraised the body she had just revealed to him.

She turned to the table and picked up a band giving him the most amazing view of her bared back. The thin strapped tank was virtually nonexistent in the rear, exposing the creamy expanse of her back, the long line of her neck as she pulled those dark tumbling curls up in a messy twist. He tried to throttle back the dizzying current of arousal racing through him, considering she was completely oblivious to the reaction she drew forth. There were times when he was furious with her for that, the way she seemed complacent with their friendship and how much he longed for more.

The ballerina and the enforcer.

He must be insane. The only thing that could ever be between them was this maddening friendship. If he gave her one glimpse of the growing fire within him, she would be disturbed, think him insane for imaging there could be anything intimate between them. Only he dreamed of pulling her into his arms, crushing his mouth against her soft rosy lips, devouring the taste of her.

"Okay, now, this is just the preliminary choreography that Philippe sent on the disc. He thinks it's time I step out of my comfort zone of Swan Lake and into more challenging work." she was speaking about that damned guy who wanted her to return to New York to dance for him. He wanted to go put a bullet in that bastard's head for even thinking of taking her away, but he could sense her excitement.

She had been waiting for this opportunity, a chance to go back to the dance she adored, so how could he do anything but support her. Send her back to the life she should lead. If he was any kind of man, if he truly loved her, then he would be happy for her.

Happy to rip out his heart and watch her walk away.

"Jason?"

He blinked back the painful thoughts to concentrate on her words, "Yeah, preliminary choreography," he repeated to prove he had been listening to the damning words.

"Right. So the benefit concert will run the entire first week of June, which means I'll have to go to New York for the last two weeks of May for rehearsals. There's this solo and then the Pas de Deux he wants me to perform with Nikolai Tarasov."

"Who?"

"The Russian sensation who emigrated to the U.S. this past December," she paused and shook her head with a chuckle, "And of course you've never heard of him. It was all over the news Jason," she waved her hand then turned back to the stereo system built into the wall. "I can't believe he asked specifically for me, even though he heard about my injuries." The pleased blush on her face told him that it meant a great deal to him, so he tried not to let her see the envy that boiled in his stomach.

All he heard was these men taking her from him. First it was the Philippe asshole, now this Russian dancer, all ready and willing to take Elizabeth away.

"Philippe promised another solo, but he hasn't finished choreographing a few of the other dances and hasn't gotten to it yet. He threatened me with dire consequences if I don't get up to the city to see him this weekend." She trailed off as she slipped on a funny looking half soled sandal then wiggled her toes to adjust the fit of the straps. "Think you could come with," she glanced up at him with a half smile, "I'd take you to all my old haunts and I promise not to bore you too much."

She was including him? "Uh, I guess," he began and that seemed to make her happy.

"Good, and don't forget to make a note somewhere in that busy head of yours to come up for the rehearsals and to the opening night," she smirked, "I know wearing suits isn't your thing, and definitely not _watching people prance around on stage in tights_," she gave him back one of his sarcastic remarks about her favorite movie. "But I really want you to be there." This last trailed off at the end, exposing a hint of vulnerability in her voice that he hadn't expected.

"I," he paused, "I can take the time," he agreed. Even if it caused an argument with Sonny, he would make the time to be there for her. "I can rent a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, Central Park hotel for us," he offered tentatively, wondering how she would react to sharing space with him but obviously he need not have worried because she just nodded.

"I'll split the cost with you."

"You don't have to do that," he retorted immediately. She always did that, hating for him to pay for anything for her. "I offered."

"Three weeks Jason," she paused, then shook her head, "That's asking too much, I can."

"I'd like to," he cut her off quietly. He couldn't give her back her dancing. He knew nothing of choreography or benefit concerts, nothing of that world she lived in, but this one simple thing he could give her. "I want to do this Elizabeth. For once, just let me do this. Please."

She looked at him for a long time, taking his measure before the side of her mouth lifted into a small smile, "This one time." Then she turned back to the stereo, "Now sit down, so I can show you the dance and you can tell me what you think."

"I don't know anything about dancing," he frowned.

"You know what you like and what you don't like," she pointed out, "All I want is your opinion Jason. That's all."

"Fine," he released a slow breath, watching as she pressed the play button then hurried to the center of the floor to stand with her back to him.

The melody crept through the air, the lone notes of a piano, then a shimmer of cymbals as Elizabeth's torso sway gently to life and a woman's haunting voice spurred her forward in light quick steps. The words to the song ripped open his soul and bared it before he could stop it.

He watched each circle of her leg, the movement would start at her torso, in the most unlikely of places, and it was as if her entire body was connected and each movement flowing straight from her heart. Then he would swallow past the lump in his throat as he watched her perfect behind tighten down to the unexpectedly sinewy muscle in her thigh, pull through her calf, then she would drag her leg around, her dainty feet pointed, drawing his focus to the high arch. Since when did he start ogling Elizabeth's feet?

There was just something so sexy the about that arch. Maybe it was her dainty toes painted that deep burgundy? No, it was that arch, it made him want to feel it, run his hand along it's path.

Perhaps it was the almost sensual way she would drag her leg in that circle, then the three light steps across the floor, or the way her body seemed to give way as it prepared to repeat the entire movement on her left leg. Her poise, that grace and unbelievable sense of fluidity in her body simply awed him.

He watched her feet shuffle quickly, the expressiveness in her face matching the rising rhythm of the music. The suppleness of her arms drew him forward in his seat, entranced, as she seemed to beckon to him. her body dipping briefly only for her to raise powerfully on one leg, that weak leg that she had always worried about, with the other extended behind her and hold for a the longest moment then to collapse dramatically to the floor as the music changed.

These movements were different from the light almost featherlike steps in the beginning. These movements were earthy. Sexual. Those strong arms circled briefly only to rise to the ceiling and hold making his breathe catch in his throat. Long, gentle fingers caressed the length of her body, drawing his eyes to the swell of her breasts, her slim waist baring that sliver of skin at her waist that he could see was tight with muscle. The hip rolls that made his mouth water, his heart race in his chest.

The beginning was tender, a slow and sustained concentration of movements.

This was seduction.

His hands clenched at the arms rests of his chair, needing that small restraint so that he could remember that he wasn't supposed to stand up and go to her. He wasn't supposed to take her into his arms and accept the invitation her seductive hips and powerful thighs offered.

And just like that she changed again, proving yet again the strength that flowed through her slender body. She began a series of leaps, light, refined, propelling herself with a push off from one leg covering a small space in the air and landing on the other leg. Then she would spring into the air, her legs beating together, to land and perform another set of those leaps, only this time more commanding, her face a study of confidence and beauty, her hands flowing through each jump to accent the moment her feet touched the ground.

She made each movement look effortless, though he could see the way the muscles in her legs tightened and pulled. A light sheen of perspiration gleamed on her pale skin. He could see the twist of power in her back and shoulders with each stretch. He knew the determination she put into each movement but the only thing that showed on her face was this dreamy sense of love that he ached to be meant for him and him alone.

Then she began a series of spins on one leg, her body being impelled through the turn by the whipping motion of her free leg. Once. Twice. Three times that leg propelled her around, to whip her into a triple spin only to begin the series again, then hit another one of those poses with her leg extended behind her.

Slowly she drew it against her body, maintaining the sustained lift on the ball of her planted foot. Then she raised her leg in another extension, this time in a direct angle to her shoulder, leaving him to watch in wonder as she seemed to fall out of the movement in one graceful sweep.

By the time she made it through to the end of the music, performing another series of those leaps and spins, and it trailed off in the delicate keys of the same haunting piano with which it began, he was on his feet. Nothing could have stopped him from crossing the floor to her. She came to a halt, suspended in the air in some inspiring pose and for the moment there was only the sound of her breathing filling the air and the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.

Gradually she opened her eyes, lowering her leg to the floor, as she glanced in the mirror seeing him standing behind her for the first time. There weren't words to convey the emotions she brought out in him, but he knew she could see the hunger in his eyes for he made no attempt to conceal it.

Their images were so different. Elizabeth with her gentle overwhelming beauty in that outfit that made him long for her and him standing behind her in his black t-shirt and jeans and his boots. He had no right to be apart of her life, but she had already given him hell for trying to make decisions for her once. He had no intention of risking it again.

Yet being her friend and wanting to be more than her friend were two different things. Wanting to be her lover was a step he wasn't certain that she wanted to take with him. Yet, he needed to know. Perhaps they could go back to the same friendship they'd had, maybe he was risking tossing it all away, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't take this chance. She said nothing as he slipped his arm around her waist, splaying his hand wide at her tiny waist.

"Elizabeth."

**_XX_**

The image of the two of them in the mirror was quite possibly the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She dragged air into her lungs, unsure if it was arousal or the dance that had left her breathless. Those gorgeous blue eyes followed the lift of her chest in the mirror and her body instantly responded, nipples tightening against the damp material of the tank she wore. Judging from the way he licked his lips, she knew he could see the sensitive peaks rubbing against the cotton.

His voice, just the soft husky murmur of her name was enough to make heat gathering between her legs, to clench achingly for something more.

She watched as he lowered his head, his eyes hooded with desire as he nuzzled the skin just behind her ear. She was terrified to move, to breath, in fear that she had somehow knocked herself unconscious while she was dancing and this was just a very heated dream that her subconscious had pieced together from the lingering cravings of her waking mind.

Jason wasn't holding her in his arms.

Jason wasn't inhaling her as if she were paradise.

And that wasn't an erection she felt pressing against her ass.

Any moment now she was going to roll over in her bed and awaken, irritated and aroused, and most depressingly alone. Because if this was real, she didn't know how she was going to prevent herself from crawling all over him in the next few seconds.

How long had she waited for him to stop looking at her like a friend and to see how much she wanted him. To see how desperately she loved him. When had she fallen in love with Jason Morgan was a mystery, but she knew that every day that passed was filled with the fear that he would meet a woman. He would ring the doorbell to her loft and introduce her to the person who had been lucky enough to capture his heart again.

Some blonde named Courtney. Or perhaps some luscious brunette named Samantha.

And she would forever be regulated to the role of best friend. Forced to smile and endure his happiness with another woman, keeping her own feelings locked deep inside.

She didn't' know when it happened. Maybe it was during that second viewing of _A Chorus Line_ that he had suffered through. Or maybe it was the cases of diet Pepsi he kept in his refrigerator for her and didn't' laugh at her drug of choice.

Or perhaps the way he listened to her and didn't judge.

Or the way he always supported her with no questions asked.

Or maybe it was right here in this instant with the way those Celtic eyes looked at her as if he wanted to swallow her whole.

_Please, please God don't let this be a dream,_ echoed in her mind.

Slowly she lifted her hand, reaching behind his head and did one thing she'd always longed to do. Her fingernails slipped into his chestnut brown hair, loving the sensation against her skin. Their eyes locked in the mirror as she arched into him and murmured, "Jason."

Lips parted as she waited for his response, she jerked slightly when his hand flexed over her stomach. The movement made him pause so she whispered, "Please, please don't stop," so he would know that she needed him to continue.

Those fingers that she loved holding caressed her belly, the little slip of skin that her shorts had bared. Tiny strokes meant to send little bursts of heat streaking through her body and succeeding wildly.

"What are we doing," he finally said against her ear, shifting to fit their forms together perfectly, "We shouldn't."

Only that wasn't what his body was saying. The heat pouring off him didn't say they should stop. The strength in the arm around her didn't suggest they call a halt to the path they were about to walk down. And certainly her body pulsing in response disagreed with his words.

"Why," she asked.

"Because, we," he paused, took a shaky breath, "I," then he closed his eyes and buried his face into her hair drawing in a long deep breath as if he'd wanted to do this for so long and could no longer resist. "I don't want to hurt you," he finally managed.

"Then don't stop," she reached back to grasp his leg, loving the way the muscle contracted at her touch, tightening her fingers in his hair, "The only way you'll hurt me is if you walk away."

"You deserve better than me, some guy who kills people."

"You deserve better than some prima donna who prances across a stage for a living."

He raised his eyes then, a bright light of anger filling them, "Everything you are is beautiful. Don't ever belittle that."

"Everything you are, is all I've ever wanted," she gave him in return, "Don't ever doubt that."

She turned into his arms then, needing to see his face, and cupped his cheek lightly, "Don't ever doubt that," she repeated.

His hand tightened briefly on her waist, as the other reached up and carefully pulled the band from her hair, to thread his fingers through her curls. He fanned them over one shoulder, and then allowed his hand to trail along her side to join the other at her waist. "I love you."

The simple words meant the world.

"I love you," she smiled through a blur of tears, free finally to give him that last lingering piece of her heart, and knowing as she lifted her arm to circle around his neck, that he would treasure it.

And when he lifted her into the air, when his lips claimed hers, shattering her senses with the hunger of his kiss, when her body curled perfectly around him ready to surrender to the ecstasy his touch promised, she knew loving Jason Morgan would be the greatest dance of her life.

_The End_

_Thanks for reading_


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